


the quiet of the aftermath

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You okay?” Brute chews on his lips as he watches Fyre dart around their makeshift bedroom, hunting through chests for medicines, water, scraps of fabric that could be repurposed as bandages. They were woefully unequipped for this whole endeavour, he realises now – not just the storming of the castle itself, but the aftermath, dealing with injuries and storing loot and sorting the useful from the useless.</p>
<p>(In which Brute and Fyre return home from castle-conquering and patch each other up, and Fyre frets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the quiet of the aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> this has taken me like a month and a half to write smh i’ve been so slow at all these prompts. also?? the fic takes place after [this episode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r35_Vq5ezVs&list=PL3J-2CqfpKxiSAmosORmqOGg9GBmkud6c&index=9) of modventures, so it’s not quite domestic fluff. hopefully it’s close enough. anyways, celebratory my-exams-are-over-and-writer’s-block-has-lifted fic for y’all.

“You okay?” Brute chews on his lips as he watches Fyre dart around their makeshift bedroom, hunting through chests for medicines, water, scraps of fabric that could be repurposed as bandages. They were woefully unequipped for this whole endeavour, he realises now – not just the storming of the castle itself, but the aftermath, dealing with injuries and storing loot and sorting the useful from the useless.

“I’m fine,” lies Fyre through his teeth, as he buries himself up to the shoulders searching through yet another chest. The heavy, lurking void of the respawn still aches like lodged ice cube somewhere in the back of his throat – the blunt, distracting weight of it even outweighs the steady throb of fractured ribs, the tight pull of dried blood on his calf where an arrow had grazed it. “Just some bumps and scrapes. Nothing big.”

Brute laughs at Fyre’s unconvincing reassurance, black eye squinting through the swelling as the other crinkles at the edges with a smile. “I’m gonna check you over as soon as you’re done with me,” he promises, lips twisting at the way Fyre sighs slightly with relief at the words. “See! You’re not fine.”

“You’ve got an arrow through your shoulder,” Fyre points out, a little sharply, voice pitched higher as concern leaks into his words. “An arrow! I’m fine _by comparison_.” He sets a bucket of water down on the chest nearest Brute with slightly more force than needed, water slopping over the edges and splashing Brute’s knee where he’s sat cross-legged on the bed.

Huffing displeasure at the feel of damp fabric against skin, just another discomfort to add to a long list, Brute drags a hand through his hair. He bites the inside of his cheek to hide a wince at the way the motion jars his other shoulder – along with the arrow lodged in it, tip stuck an inch into the flesh between shoulder blade and spine. “That’s not the point.”

Demeanour softening a little, Fyre catches Brute’s wrist in one clawed hand and tugs it down and away from his hair. “Right now, it is,” he says, quietly, brushing a thumb across Brute’s face. The motion is achingly tender despite the way his feathers are flared with anxiety, a bright golden fluff spattered crimson. Brute hopes most of the blood doesn’t belong to either of them. “Hold still now. I need to get this off.”

Tilting his head to kiss the pad of Fyre’s thumb, Brute grins as the already reddish-brown skin of Fyre’s cheeks gets even more red. The smile slips a little, though, when Fyre hooks a blade under the collar of it and begins severing the seams of it in slow, steady movements to avoid puncturing skin as well as cloth. “Aww, I _like_ this shirt,” he grumbles, frowning at the growing rips. “Really?”

“If you want to try and pull it over your head, you’re welcome to,” mutters Fyre, and then squeaks in alarm when Brute makes to move his arms. “No! No! Please don’t do that, that was a _joke_ -” His feathers ruffle even further, glinting in the torchlight, and Brute can’t help laughing again.

The laughter stops abruptly when the cutting tugs a little too hard at the shirt and nudges the arrow – and then he’s whining pain through gritted teeth, struggling not to flinch. Fyre flinches with him, before forcing himself to stillness again. He needs a steady hand for this, he knows, no matter how much the wet shine of pain in Brute’s eyes makes him want to tremble.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice quiet and strained and as soothing as he can manage as he finishes cutting the rest of the shirt, letting the ruined fabric fall to the bed. “I’m sorry-” Without fabric obscuring the wound, it looks even worse, jagged-edged flint biting deep into flesh slowly purpling with bruises.

Taking a deep breath, Fyre presses a hand to Brute’s chest to keep him still, and – before Brute can tense up – curls fingers around the arrow shaft and pulls it out with one clean wrench.

Brute cries in shock out when the arrow rips free, fingers curling white-knuckled into the sheets as he doubles over his knees, the wetness in his eyes spilling over into tears that stream down his cheeks. It takes everything Fyre has not to comfort him, not to take Brute in his arms and hold him and whisper soft words. Instead, he pushes him upright and presses a wad of cloth against the wound, kissing the top of his head with eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, it’s going to be alright,” he promises, words tinged with panic, presses harder against the wound as the cloth soaks through with blood until he can feel the wet warmth against his fingers. “It’s- it’s fine.”

The pressure drags a grunt out of Brute, but he cuts off the noises of pain by biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t trust himself to speak without distressing Fyre further, so he doesn’t, swallows any words of reassurance he has and concentrates on calming himself. His breathing slows, heavy exhalations through his nose as his nerves gradually wind down from their grating scream.

Finally, the bleeding slows, and Fyre tentatively pulls the ruined cloth away, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists at the sight and scent of blood – the acid tang of it combined with the smell of Brute at the back of his throat is sharp and nauseating enough that it’s an effort not to retch. The blood on its own is uncomfortably reminiscent of food.

“It’s fine,” he repeats, slowly, pressing another bundle in place and tying it there with makeshift bandages, hoping his clumsy knots will hold. “It’s fine now.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince..

Brute nods, managing a shaky grin. “Thanks to you,” he agrees hoarsely – and before he has time to lift a hand and scrub the tears from his cheeks, he has a lap full of Fyre, a head tucked under his chin and feathers tickling against his throat. “...Fyre?”

“I’m fine,” manages Fyre, voice full of high-pitched denial and poorly-restrained tears. He loops arms around Brute’s waist in a careful hug, clinging to him as best he can manage with their various injuries. “I’m absolutely fine, just- just checking you’re fine too.”

Brute chuckles, quietly, before sucking in a small breath as the movement jolts his shoulder. He feels Fyre tense at the sound, and sighs, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of Fyre’s hair and card slowly through the soft fluff of feathers there. “Well,” he says, gentle and teasing. “I think I’m fine. But it can’t hurt for you to stay here and check a little longer.”

Trilling quietly in agreement, Fyre presses his face against the side of Brute’s neck – and, without his customary mask in place, Brute can feel the curve of his lips against the soft skin there. “Yeah,” he says, slowly. “Yeah. Just to make sure.”


End file.
